


A Knight to the Queen of Nassau

by CatherineTypes



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/F, Past Anne Bonny/Jack Rackham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 04:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12740709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatherineTypes/pseuds/CatherineTypes
Summary: Anne is glad to finally have somewhere to come back to, even if it's a shitty little island where she's seen a lot of horror.





	A Knight to the Queen of Nassau

**Author's Note:**

> Just another little piece where I imagine things post-season 4.

Anne’s boots hit the ground and she stands a minute, trying to regain her confidence with suddenly being on land again. She stays until the small chest under her arm starts to be a nuisance, and then walks on, not waiting for anyone else. Jack had kissed her temple as they’d anchored the ship and she’d hugged his waist briefly in response, knowing that he wouldn't be far from her for as long as they were ashore, but they both knew they wouldn’t be lying together again. Not like they’d used to.

The revelation had been such a long time coming it hadn’t really felt like a revelation at all. More like the merciful severance of a cord that had been long fraying. Not to say that their bond was weakened - when Anne had sworn the two would be partners until death, she had meant it. Just not quite the same way she might have before. Jack, for his part, seemed to have accepted it, readying himself to move forward. He’d been spending quite a bit of time with “that Mark chap” - Anne smirks to herself every time she thinks of it, how cheerfully the two get along and how oblivious Jack seems to be. She isn’t sure whether he’s being genuine or just playing some teasing game with the lass, who Anne knows is likely really called “Martha” or “Margaret” or something like that. She’d gone by Andrew more than once in the early days, way back before she’d been confident enough to kill men as simply Anne.

But now - now she is definitely Anne Bonny, and none can take that from her. She knows who she is, even if others don’t, and though it has taken a lot of thought and hate and heartbreak and hurt, physical, mental and emotional, she has made peace with herself, meaning that unlike how she might have once moved, she now keeps her shoulders back and head high as she walks, unhurried, across the beach and up into Nassau. For all that this island has exhausted her, taken so much from her, it now means something else. It's no longer a reminder of a miserable past or a horrific present to survive; it's the future and all the potential held by it. She still doesn't love it, but it's important, and she doesn't hate it half as much as she used to. The tiredness is gone and Nassau is something new.

The chest starts to slip and she shifts to hoist it up again. The treasures in it, coins and jewels and a valuable miniature statue or two, aren’t many, but they were deliberately hand-picked by Anne herself for the sake of making Max happy. The jewels are in shades to match Anne’s favourites among her dresses - though the very thought of wearing one herself makes her feels sick, to think of how well Max wears them, eyes perfectly shaded and hair falling gracefully about her shoulders or tied up elegantly to expose her neck, inspires something warm and fond in Anne’s heart. Anne is already smiling thinking of her, though she knows Max will likely be asleep by now.

There had still been a lot of forgiving to do, after returning from Philadelphia. A lot of talking. So much fucking talking. They’d talked from sundown to sunrise and then some, an awful, painful, dragged out conversation that was necessary but Anne is certain neither of them want to revisit, though it had rippled through the subsequent days like marks left by a stone hitting water. It took time and patience and sympathy between the two women before they could feel truly comfortable with one another again. But they managed, and would continue to manage. Anne would survive, as she always did. Max would succeed, as she was always meant to.

Now Anne treads up the well-worn stairs, the guard letting her past when she reaches Maxes door. There are candles still lit, but Max herself lies, as expected, asleep in the middle of the large bed, one arm over the covers and her own torso, the other up over her head. 

Anne looks at her with bright affection, trying to lay the chest down on the table as gently as possible so she can present it to Max tomorrow, before setting her hat down on top of it and moving to take off her belt. She always remembers Max’s hands fondly, not just because of how skilled they are between Anne’s legs, but simply because of just how right they feel in Anne’s own hands, or on her shoulders, her hips. Just lying beside Max and feeling her body press against Anne’s in a somewhat innocent embrace is a small heaven.

It’s odd, Anne thinks as she undresses, just how much she has come to understand herself in the time she’s known Max. Partially, it’s finally bringing herself to admit her own physical and romantic inclinations, but it’s more than that, for all that that aspect of herself is significant and something she’s come to accept fully. Anne has almost always defined herself by other people; she was her father’s daughter, then her husband’s wife, then Jack’s partner. And then there was Max. Max who saw Anne by herself, for herself, as herself. Max who saw Anne in a way nobody, not even Jack, had seen her before. This loyalty she now has to Max, this devotion, isn’t the result of duty, of a forced arrangement, of a need to repay the freedom given to her by somebody else - it’s a partnership of equals acknowledging one another, a willing fealty as a show of trust regained. 

As Anne climbs into the bed, from the side she’s now come to think of as her side, Max wakes just enough to smile at her and extend her hand for Anne to take, not pulling her into the bed but merely holding on as Anne pulls the blanket over the two of them. They both need a little bit of space in sleep so neither is lying on top of the other in any way, but they stay close, elbow to elbow, fingers entwined. Max brushes back a lock of hair that has fallen over Anne’s cheek and Anne smiles back. They share a brief kiss, and then Max is leaning back into the pillows, drifting back to sleep. Anne is still smiling as she closes her eyes - after all her struggles, she finally has somewhere - someone - that well and truly feels like home, and she sleeps peacefully in the knowledge she is no servant worshipping a goddess, but a proud knight to the Queen of Nassau.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently "Gay gingers and their sleepy partners getting an explicitly happy epilogue the show itself left open to interpretation" is my favourite thing to write just now. This was written as two in the morning and is completely unbetaed, so if there are any mistakes please don't hesitate to point them out and as always, any thoughts of yours on the work itself are appreciated; please do share them.


End file.
